


A thousand subtle shades

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Classical Music RPF
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate History, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Music, Treat, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 05:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: And then, he sits down, and he writes about it. He writes, with the skill of love. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he stops, and he surrenders.Chopin dedicates music to Liszt. Liszt writes Chopin's (rather idealised) biography. Here's a short, possible explanation as to why.





	A thousand subtle shades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vargs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargs/gifts).



> This story was inspired by [this](https://hiddendragon.dreamwidth.org/700.html) excellent prompt, and also by Liszt's [biography](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/4386/4386-h/4386-h.htm) of Chopin. It might be a touch too dramatic, but I like to think that the Romantics would have approved! ;)

A sea of lead, out there. And here, here is the Pianist, finally alone. Alone with his thoughts and the sunfall and the dust. Here he stands, at the crossroads. At the edge of the world.

Another day gone, and he makes another mask. But he longs to walk in the rain, with the night. With the colours of music, with the poetry of its world. He wants to be noticed. He needs to be seen.

He finds it by chance, without seeking. Passing through Paris, the world bursts into sound, and he knows. He hears it. No, rather, he almost _sees_ it. These are the possibilities, the landscapes of music. And he falls at its feet.

A fortress, a poetic prelude, and yes, the Polish gentleman has nocturnal lungs. Nocturnal hands. Empty, exiled eyes, quiet despair among the flowers. There is nothing here, nothing for him. Nothing, unless he plays. If he plays, then all is right. If he plays, the world shows itself, in whispers of mystery and truth.

(Behold this lost bird, this subtle angel, with his hidden rage, his tender sadness. He whispers too, a soft promise. If the pain breaks him, he will go on. Will he soothe the bitterness, the sorrow? He can't say. He can only try.)

No, no candles now! He wants the imaginary places now. The music sounds better then, sharper, here in his inner little world. It breathes with the night air, it whispers to the sky. It is dark here, but the star within him shines bright, so bright. So high, but so alone. And he breathes as well, and it draws him close, close, closer still, in spite of himself. 

Here is an invitation to walk into that world. Here, he is truly seen.

He plays, and the world comes back. It begins, it ends. The music pours out of him, from his hair, his mouth, his hands. He is gone, but he is _here_. A faraway wind, and he rises, dark clouds and lightning in his eyes. The freedom of music, deep and red like latent fire. Intense, almost forbidden, forever the size of faith. Breathtaking.

His heart trembles, moved from its axis, torn from transformation alone. His heart, half holy and half wild, laid bare to be devoured. Without words, he understands. He is understood. He should have known.

And then, it happens everywhere. Every day. Withered pages. Sad whispers and melodies. The nuances of stolen time, its textures alive under his hands. A pulse like moonlight, delicate yet fierce. His soul, in golden dreams, like intimate, unspoken words. Quiet, then loud, like the sea, the chords of his proud heart. He is, he _exists_. Like prayer, like poetry. Exactly what he should be.

Now, music is true emotion. It is chaos. It is soaring poetry and truth, standing there at the edge of the world, with him. It speaks to him, in its own language. It calls, like homeland, and he reaches out his hand. He reaches out, to catch the music, to hold it safe and close to his heart. 

Close, closer still. A whispered dream, this is for him, for him alone. The music will tell him. And he will know.

(And no, the Études are not his, but they might as well be. The words, the notes, the unwritten music of before, they are all _his._ And his heart is back in his old country now. But it is still here with him. Within dreams, it is _here_.)

Time leaves him with empty hands. He has found it, but it is too late. He has found nothing but moonlight, a beautiful remembrance of what might have been. And this is all he has.

The world is different now. But he is still here somehow. Here, in unknown shores. And the music rests upon his shoulder, it shares his drink, it kisses his hands. Well, perhaps. Perhaps, he simply feels the years and the loss. The pilgrimage, the search. Yes, the words, the notes, for him alone.

His fingers search for the keys. They long for music, his confessor, his soul, his faithful guide. Slowly, slowly, and he remembers. A breath, like red flowers under glass. In the night, he hears the broken chord, almost like a song. It still happens. So he leaves Chopin, safely there in a last Nocturne, deep within the ink and the notes, healing invisible wounds. Like a reflection, he sets the music into stone. And he carves his name there, his fingers wild and unashamed.

And then, he sits down, and he writes about it. He writes, with the skill of love. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he stops, and he surrenders. He has travelled far, and there is a world he has seen, a perfect truth he knows. But he can't truly _say_. So he lets go, he lets go of the music and the words. He hides among the flowers, among a thousand subtle shades. Some things cannot be translated.


End file.
